


Old Hearts and Steady Hands

by theblindtorpedo



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bilbo gets wistful, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Cultural Differences, Dori and Nori are REAL bros, Elves having fun laughing at Dwarves as per usual, Glorfindel is a Bro, M/M, Mutual Pining, Scholars Falling in Love, Slice of LIfe in Rivendell, Slow Burn, White Council happens and its stressful, cameo from bitchy Lindir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:33:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25369171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo
Summary: There is much to see at Rivendell with its sparkling hallways, verdant gardens, and elegant residents. The Dwarves take a well needed rest and revel in the wonders that surround them. For Ori, it will be one of the most memorable fortnights of his life. And Erestor, he has heard tales of affection that can transcend decades, distance, death, but never did he anticipate his heart being captured by a soft spoken dwarf. This is the beginning of their story.
Relationships: Erestor/Ori (Tolkien)
Kudos: 4





	Old Hearts and Steady Hands

**Author's Note:**

> me: writes in 2012 for rarepair ship that no one cares about  
> me: doesn't post it to ao3 for eight years  
> me: this-is-fine.jpg
> 
> this is very niche and self indulgent, but thought i should probably stop being embarrassed by it and post it. love these two so much. please let me know if you like it/what you think it'd mean the WORLD to me (and i might write more if there is some demand since this was originally supposed to have a sequel where they *deep breath* kiss)

The first time they saw each other it was in the manner that one sees others in a crowd. The forms and colors of skin, hair and clothing were absorbed by eyes, but did not catch in the mind. There was no spark of intrigue, no recognition of a kindred spirit, no ignition of passion. To Erestor he was only another of the Last Homely House’s endless guests, though these looked to be a rowdier bunch than usual. He had the satisfaction that the likelihood of these dwarves disturbing his limited realm of office and personal apartment was slim. To Ori he was only one of innumerable new elven faces, graced with such beauty that they flowed together in his mind. In their exoticism they became a single unit in his memory. Later they would not lie to each other –they never lied to each other—and say they had foreseen the future years of happiness and love together. Once Ori had admitted he wished he had: in that moment he would have met Erestor’s dark eyes and fallen instantly in love. It was a romantic notion.

Erestor had laughed soundlessly then and stroked his hair. “It would not have been the same,” he would whisper into the crown of his dwarf’s head, “it would have been too fast. Had I recognized your affections—or worse my own— I would have fortified my barriers. You were young. You would not have known how to break through no matter how you willed it. Love took me by surprise and that is the best of all.”

“No, you are right,” Ori would concede, “I would not change us for the world.”

* * * * *

Long ago he had become numbed to the joy of a high sun. In Gondolin he had delighted in the way the spires and gates glittered. The light lifted spirits and cleared the mind to spin dreams of the future. Here the sun, traitorous in its constancy, beat and blinded in the reflection of the colors of the House’s residents. He could no longer associate brightness with good, for the sun had shone even as thousands died, Gondolin had fallin and Erestor had been lost. Ah, to be young and foolish to believe it symbolized success and happiness. Where he had wandered, far from white walls, in the greys and browns of various cities and to come at last to the green of the valley of Lord Elrond the sun had followed, illuminating misery as often as hope. Now it strengthened Erestor as the epitome of perseverance that he aspired to. And on this especially hot afternoon he felt it most strongly and returned to his rooms to change into an outfit less constraining then his formal robes. He was tired, but anticipated several hours more of work and while the sun could continue on so could he. There was much to do with the onset of Midsummer Celebrations; Erestor was kept busy at this time by reading Lindir’s reports of the products that were imported for use in the festivities and making notes of the valley’s current economic relations. There remained a stack of papers at least a foot tall on his desk, awaiting his perusal. His natural work ethic would not usually allow such an accumulation, but he had been called to spend most of the day in a council meeting to compile a list of those to invite for the harvest festivities two months hence. This decision had to be made so that messengers would have ample time to be sent and return with acceptance or rejection. It involved much discussion of the political implications of inviting and not inviting various lords and their retinues. He was glad to escape it, if only for a little while.

It was less of a change and more of a discarding. Quilted coat, shoulder drapes and sash were folded neatly and placed in a trunk at the foot of the bed. The white undergown was left on and he selected a light blue outer robe of thin linen. Though it was simple in shape – flowing in a continuous sheet from his shoulders – the intricate embroidery mimicking the movement of waves indicated its quality. The outfit was made in the single step of pulling it over his head. Erestor knew his status required clothing to match, but he detested all the time wasted struggling through myriad layers and colors and attachments. These were an indulgence, where he could look presentable (to a degree, they would not be accepted at any ceremony) with the least amount of effort. He was pleased with the new arrangement and in the process of straightening and smoothing out the fabric, when he was interrupted by a dwarf barging into his room.

“Oh, I beg your pardon! Just looking for the library-,“ the intruder disappeared back into the hall as quickly as he had come, leaving the door ajar in his haste. Erestor could discern from the outside the circling footsteps of someone hopelessly lost. The dwarf was in clear distress. This was notable. In his experience dwarves were preoccupied mostly with craftsmanship, food, and mining. All knowledge they deemed of importance was passed down generation by generation, as opposed to collected. Erestor wondered what use a member of Thorin’s company would have with the contents of the Rivendell libraries. Since their arrival he had not given the dwarves much thought; their quest was petty in his eyes and, by his consideration, of little importance in the well being of Rivendell. This opinion was derived from his complete lack of faith that they might succeed, but his political mind worried that this unexpected dwarf might be an indication of an ulterior motive. If this were the case it would be in his business to know.

He rose and exited his chambers. The dwarf was contemplating the two doorways at the end of the hall.

“I believe I may be of assistance. You are far from the library, but I know the way.”

He was of average height for a dwarf, but his hairstyle was unusually minimal. He had a simple beard, but his cheeks were bare. A near imperceptible sweep of hair lay above his upper lip. Four longer braids hung down about his large ears, but the frontal hair was left to hang in bangs cropped just above wispy eyebrows. Deep set eyes took in Erestor. The traditional large dwarven nose was hooked and freckles spilled across his face like pollen. Erestor was struck by the contradiction before him. The dwarf looked to be gentle and mild, while still possessing the core roughness and solidity of his race. His natural stance grounded him, in a way elves could never be. While they were one with the earth, he was the earth, creation of Aule: a young rock that had tumbled down from his mountain. Its path was unfamiliar, but a rock accepts its fate and can only attempt to adjust to the new patterns of weathering. He had discarded his traveling clothes since arrival. Now he wore no cloak, but an outfit of various shades of grey. Large pants were tucked into short, thick brown boots, the fabric pooling around the rims and a silver filigree belt was wound around a lighter grey long sleeve tunic. Under an arm he carried a wrapped package that, by size, shape and his destination, could be identified to be a book. 

“You are most kind Master Elf,” he bowed, favoring Erestor with a polite smile, “Ori, son of Orin, of the House of Durin, at your service.”

Erestor knew the proper response, but he was not prepared to return it.

“Im Erestor o Imladris. I am Erestor of Rivendell.”

“Mae govannen, Master Erestor,” the dwarf replied. Each vowel was held for a moment on the tongue, as if upon each the speaker was reconsidering his attempt and the criticism it might bring, but eventually the phrase was entirely pushed from his lips. The dwarf looked to the elf for approval. Erestor raised an eyebrow in his surprise. His habit of peppering his Common Speech with Sindarin was an arrogance met most often with dislike and once the topic of a memorable reprimand by Elrond. It created an unintentional air of superiority when interacting with other races, which often created hostility between him and whomever he might be addressing. So the dwarf’s attempt was unusual, furthermore because Erestor had not known a dwarf to know any of his language. Erestor found it refreshing; a valiant and respectful effort had been made to engage in his culture, unheard of among dwarves. And, he noted with satisfaction , Ori’s accent was not brash. Yet it might be an elaborate ploy to integrate himself into Elven good graces for an antagonistic purpose or at the very least one that Elrond would not approve of. Further investigation was still called for, Erestor decided, but he would not ask the dwarf directly. For now he would only lead him and make inquiries later.

“Well said.” Ori looked bashfully down at his feet, but his smile broadened at the praise. “But let us not tally in the living quarters, Master Ori, you may follow me to the library.”

They walked in silence, Erestor’s smooth strides overwhelming; it took most of Ori’s focus to keep pace with the long limbed elf, who gave no consideration to the difficulties of his smaller proportions. Ori would not complain, but trudged beside him, three steps to every one of Erestor’s. Occasionally, he would sneak glimpses at his companion. Ori had thought all Elves beautiful, but he had not yet taken the time to study any elf’s individual appearance. Erestor’s fall of dark brown, almost black hair was unembellished, save a single braid pulling hair back from the sides of his head. It was a style of convenience, were he to lean over no stray strands would fall into his face. The rest hung down his back to his waist. Ori did not think Erestor fought much, such length would only be a hindrance in battle. He did not have the face of a warrior either, though Ori would never be able to describe how he saw this. Erestor’s face was sharper than the other elves, with high cheekbones, solid chin and jaw line, and pert lips. Hard, but intelligent eyes pointed unwavering towards his goal. His air was one of stern authority, at odds with the softness of skin and hair. Ori felt a strange urge to see if that were true, to carefully pull apart the digits of that pale hand, to wrap himself in a veil of that hair. His lack of experience with elves clouded his ability to recognize how abnormal these impulses might be. To him, such a level of admiration was natural when presented with ineffable elven beauty.

Their footsteps beat time against the stone, a steady rhythm, and so lost was he in his mind that when they finally arrived at the library Ori could not have said how long the walk had been. Erestor pressed his hand upon the wooden doors. They yielded under his touch.

It was glorious.

A high summer sun streamed in from a ceiling dome cut with skylights. In front of them stretched a walkway, golden with sunbeams, culminating in a circular clearing where stood a grand statue: an elven lord, tall and regal, cradling a stone tome in one hand, at his feet sat his lady, her book open. Her lips were parted, breathing in the knowledge within. Outward from this raised platform radiated shelves upon shelves of books, more books than Ori had seen in his entire life. He was awestruck. Erestor was amused at the dwarf’s incredulity, for to him this place was as familiar and homely as his own chambers.

Another elf approached him. She wore eggshell colored robes and her ringlets of light brown hair were pinned with golden clasps, allowing her whole being to glint in the sunlight.

“Counsellor, I see you have a guest!” Her voice was high and lilted like a child’s though she held herself with the maturity of an obvious fullgrown.

Ori bowed at the lady.

“If you bow for every elf you meet your knees shall give out by the morrow,” Erestor said.

The elf lady laughed heartily, to help the dwarf feel he was not being patronized, for Erestor’s humor was not always evident. Ori looked confused, but her gaiety was infectious and he found himself laughing with her. Erestor frowned. He had meant it as a side remark to be appreciated, but not with such enthusiasm that to him bordered on mockery.

“You are a guest of Elrond,” she reassured, “the highest of respect will be paid to you. Do not trouble yourself with bows. I am Golweniel, the Head Librarian, may I be of aid to you?”

“It seems I have fulfilled by purpose then,” Erestor said frostily.

“Thank you very much,” Ori tried to reply, but there was no one to give thanks to. Having successfully passed on his charge, Erestor had turned his back to them and swept down the corridor.

The librarian’s eyes narrowed at the Counsellor’s rudeness and she placed a comforting hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “Do not fret. His discourtesy is not personal. Erestor has much on his mind and he should be forgiven for his unkindnesses.”

“He was kind to lead me all this way from his quarters when I was so lost.”

“That is unusual,” she mused, “He is rarely accommodating for anyone save himself.”

An unexplainable warm glow of pleasure swam up Ori’s neck at the thought.

“And he has not made a joke for many a year . . . but enough about the dour Counsellor,” Golweniel clapped, “Did you seek the library for a specific reason, Master Dwarf?”

“Oh yes, yes!” He made to unwrap his journal, tucking the cloth into his belt and flipping to find and point out several names and places he was looking for.

* * * * *

Erestor would not return to the library that day; the reports would go unread. He had plenty else to occupy him, there were lesser counselors to meet. Later in the week, he assured himself he would confront Elrond and question Golweniel about the dwarves. He had created yet another, be it small, in the multitude of concerns that filled his head. And this was how he kept on living by collecting concerns to keep him occupied, to keep the memories at bay. He had to manufacture more purpose, in fear that even his great duties for Lord Elrond would not suffice. Erestor ran from his own mind, building a labyrinth so what lurked in the depth could not find him, but it kept moving and so he laid passage way after passage way.

Ori built a maze too, smaller for he had less time to craft it. And it was quite unlike Erestor’s. He was not always running. He wandered, to build as he willed, but to always retreat to the center where he could be safe. The Rivendell libraries provided him with supplies, books to bricks, words to mortar. He spent hours expanding his mind.

That night Ori fell down into his seat at the table, trying to look as guiltless as possible. He had every right to go where he pleased for as long as he liked, but he hoped no one had noticed he had been late to supper. His chances were slim; there was one pair of eyes that was always looking for him. 

“Where have you been?”

“Don’t be angry, Dori! Please!” His hands were up in protest of the impending scolding.

“He’s been looking for you all day,” Nori said from across the table, waving a knife at his brothers.

“I’ve been-“ Dori paused to glare at the star haired dwarf, “We were supposed to be looking for you, but I suppose it may have been only me.”

Nori shrugged. “Knew he’d come back. And there’s nothing dangerous here to worry about.”

“I still have every right to be worried.”

“I was just in the library,” Ori said, trying to assuage his incensed brother.

“’Course he was!”

“You,” Dori pointed at Nori who shook his head in indifference and returned to shoveling food into his mouth, “are not being helpful.”

“So,” he said to Ori, “what were you doing for so long?”

“Research for the mission.”

Dori’s face softened at the knowledge his brother had not been idle. Ori, recognizing he was out of trouble, brought his attention to the copious food laid out on the table. He bypassed the salad to grab at the leg of meat and rip into it.

“I found,” he said excitedly through a mouthful of food, “a history of Rivendell in the Common Tongue.”

“What’s that got to do with the Quest?” Bofur asked.

“There’s going to be a history of our great deeds once we’ve defeated the Dragon. It’ll need lots of background of all the places we’ll go.”

“Save your time, no dwarf wants to read about the history of Elves. Put in a bit about the wonderful food and songs though!” Bofur popped a potato into his mouth and chewed vigorously.

“Why not? The Elves here are so kindly and splendid.”

“The Elves of Rivendell are hospitable,” Thorin said from where he sat at the head of the table, “but it is a simple matter to let someone into your home.”

“Ha!” barked Bilbo. The hobbit was pointedly ignored.

“However, the history of our victory should spend little time on the nonsense of Elves,” the prince continued, “It shall be of our glory and none other.”

“Thorin’s not overly fond of Elves,” Balin explained.

“Why?” Ori and Bilbo asked at the same time.

“On the eastern border of the great Mirkwood –you’ve seen it on the map, we have to pass through it to reach the Mountain –lies the realm of the Elvenking Thranduil.”

“The Elves of the Woodland Realm were once friendly with my kin,” Thorin continued, “when it suited their desire for food, wine, crafts, precious metals and gems. But when the dragon attacked they proved their cowardice and would not send aid. They retreated into their underground halls.”

“And so Smaug was triumphant,” Balin ended.

There was a solemn silence.

“What can we do then?” Bilbo asked miserably, “If even the Elves did not think they could defeat the dragon?”

Ori’s eyes swept over the table, mystified by the suddenly sunken faces of his comrades. “But that’s simple,” he said, “Have hope.”

Dori could not look at Ori then. There was an awful tightening in his chest to see his brother’s eyes glittering with certainty and faith. Regret washed over him, with such high hopes failure would be all the more devastating. That is if they lived through the failure. Had he not impressed the magnitude of this mission on his brother? But Ori was an adult, though Dori overlooked this fact in his protectiveness. He had made the decision to join Thorin, who would take all who offered, of his own volition. Dori had had no right to stop him then and he could not send him back now.

Thorin Oakenshield looked at Ori with new fondness. He had been initially skeptical of his possible resourcefulness. Now, he was proud he had accepted the youngest son of Orin into his company.

* * * * *

“A spectacle!”

“Oh my, how funny.”

“Shall we go look?”

“Yes, let us!”

“Come see! Come see!”

Erestor speared a single raspberry with silver fork and placed it in his mouth, pursing his lips at the sourness.

“The residents of Imladris are lively today,” he observed.

“You consider their ideas of entertainment frivolous, I realize,” Glorfindel replied. The Captain and Counsellor were on friendly terms that they dined with each other on occasion. A shared history, the two had inhabited vastly different circles in the beginnings of their lives, yet now were placed them together. Today they sat at a table in an outer pavilion near the gardens (Erestor had picked the raspberries that morning.) They had chosen the spot for Erestor’s like of solitude-he chose to distance himself from interacting with those outside his few friends or engaging in group activities- but it had grown markedly crowded since their arrival. Boisterous elves walked or ran along the stone paths between the bushes and trees.

“I do not care what they enjoy, but I do wish they would enjoy it somewhere else.”

“It is not that bad. They are not loitering, see they are all going the same way.”

“Where?”

Glorfindel contemplated the flow of Elves.

“I would say the training grounds,” he said with surprise.

“Without the great Glorfindel, what could possibly be so interesting at the training grounds?” Erestor smirked. 

“Shall we find out, dear Counsellor?” Glorfindel grinned and plucked the fork out of the Erestor’s hand, setting it down on the table, “I admit I am curious and you are eating like a bird.”

“It isn’t polite to end a meal before the other has finished,” Erestor retorted, but he rose. Glorfindel held out an arm and Erestor rested a hand in the crook of his elbow. It was not uncommon to see the two engaging in such platonic intimacy in public. While some wondered at the seemingly opposites, they were undeniably of the same status. They were surrounded by the same aura of dignity and pose that came with the experience and wisdom of their years.

The crowd parted for them as they walked. They were in no hurry, but came eventually upon the open training grounds in the northwestern corner, where the river ran alongside one side of the large field.

“It is that company of dwarves!” Glorfindel, having the advantage of greater height and better eyes, could see above the bobbing heads, but for Erestor’s convenience they approached the front of the crowd.

The dwarves were spread out into groups. Thorin Oakenshield and a brown haired dwarf were practicing their aim in throwing axes into chunks of wood standing at varying distances. A blond dwarf, dual wielding swords, was defending himself against the single blades of two white bearded dwarves. Another, beardless, shot arrows at targets. In the corner, the hobbit was circling warily around a dummy, stabbing it with his small blade.

“Thorin Oakenshield expects to claim a mountain like this!” a heckler called.

“At least it makes for quite a show.”

“Be careful Mr. Baggins you might hurt someone!”

“Right, left, above your head!”

“I do feel sorry for them. It can be humiliating to train with so many watching,” Glorfindel said, “And they are in fact quite skilled.”

“I would not say that of the hobbit. And what of that one?” Erestor pointed.

“The taller one with the tattoos? Or the one with the eyebrows braided into his hair?”

“No, the one they are teaching.” Erestor had recognized the brown cap of hair. It was Ori, the same that he had led to the library yesterday. 

Glorfindel studied the specific dwarf. It was comical, he thought, the smaller dwarf was holding a large hammer with trepidation. The other two were having him run a course set with small red flags. They would follow, carrying dummies on long sticks, which they would push in front to block his path. His goal was to dismantle them with a sweep of the hammer, but the weight surprised him and often he would go sailing to the ground.

“He is determined. I will give him that. And a fast learner. I think if we come to see them next week he shall be much improved.”

“He is a fool,” Erestor said.

“Everyone is foolish at times, even the wisest, but I believe he will succeed. They have passion on their side.”

“Death wishes.”

“Hope, dreams of a brighter future, ambition. Something you could stand to feel again, Erestor. I think in the prosperity of our valley you have come to understand less the spirit of desperation. Watch.” 

They stood for hours and though Glorfindel’s focus would often switch, Erestor’s gaze never left Ori’s form as it sprang, flew and twirled. He must be bruised and aching. Erestor was a competent fighter with his daggers and a bow, but he knew he had never trained with the fervor of this young dwarf.

Then the practice was over and the dwarves, sweating and panting, loaded up their weapons. The crowd dispersed, but Glorfindel stayed (he had his own scheduled training now) and so did Erestor. The line of dwarves passed him as they trudged off the field and a certain pair of brown eyes grew wide in recognition.

“Master Erestor!”

“You remember me.” 

“You are hard to forget, even among all these new faces.”

“I am often told that, but not usually in a complimentary way. You, as well, are memorable.”

“Were you watching?”

“Half of Elrond’s house was watching.”

His answer had been a diversion away from the personal, but he did not count on the single-mindedness of dwarves.

“What did you think?”

He could say what he really thought, it had been so easy with Glorfindel, but he found he could not now. He was not one for softening the truth, he would not lie. These were his base principles, but Ori was a new variable. Erestor spoke his mind because he believed no one should be guarded from the hardness of this world, in the end it would make living in it all the harder. But if he told Ori the slim chances his company had of success it would not be helpful honesty. It would be malice.

Instead he asked, “You spend mornings in the library and afternoons throwing hammers. Which are you, a scholar or a warrior?”

“I can be both,” Ori said, chin raised proudly. Then he grinned. “I’m glad you came.”

“C’mon, Ori!” called a voice from near the house.

“They’ll be wanting me to go.”

It was both a statement and a question. Erestor had two choices.

“You should join them.”

Ori was disappointed, but he could not be sure whether Erestor actually no longer wished to speak to him or was dismissing him because it would be suspect to keep him from the group.

“Yes,” he murmured, “But perhaps we shall see each other again.”

Then, not awaiting a response, Ori ran to catch up with his kin. Erestor was left with a strange feeling of both fulfillment and abandonment.

* * * * *

Ori too had been collecting raspberries. He crushed them with his makeshift mortar and pestle, marveling at the vivid pigment. Once he had a substantial mix he dipped a brush into the dye and made a single stroke on his blank page. Then, after contemplation, added another, darker. He sat on the stone bench with his drawing materials, his only company the burbling of the Bruinen River. It was calming to spend time on one’s own, away from the hubbub of the house.

Most of his pigments he had set out from home with were rock based ores, deep earthy tones. He had been excited to find that in the Rivendell gardens were a plethora of new sources of color. He wished to practice their use before he applied them to any official illustrations, so he had found this place for solitude and free sketching.

He moved on to a darker shade now, deep brown. Sweeps and circles brought contour to a face around the striking pink of what he had decided were lips. He chose a dark blue for the clothing, deep and mysterious as an underground stream with indeterminable origin. Eventually, he put his brush down and smudged a line with the base of his thumb. Blowing on the portrait, he then held it out with both arms to examine. There was something off about it. He huffed in frustration.

“What are you drawing?”

Bilbo Baggins was leaning over his shoulder, pipe in one hand, a glass jar clutched in the other. Ori had not heard the hobbit approach, but he was very glad if it had to be one of the Company it was he. The hobbit was calm and unassuming. Yet Ori still instinctively clutched the drawing to his chest, hiding it from sight.

“Just practicing.”

“I really don’t mind if you don’t want me to see. I didn’t come to spy, but I brought you something.”

The jar was proffered and Ori took it, tossed it up and down, feeling the weight and watching the slow slide of a light green ointment inside.

“This was delivered to our chambers. Awfully late I must say; I was the only one still sleeping, but I sought you, because it came with this.”

Bilbo pressed a slip of parchment on top of the jar in Ori’s lap and moved to sit down beside the dwarf. Ori picked it up and examined the deliberate and bold writing that spelled out his name. On the other side the missive was sealed with red wax. 

“Through coaxing of our most reserved Chief Counsellor,” he read aloud, “I learned your name. I do not know what he may have said to you, but I hope it was not disheartening. Here is a salve to soothe your bruises and cleanse your spirit. Perhaps you may share it with Mr. Baggins? Signed, Glorfindel, Captain of the Guard.”

“My legs and arms do ache.”

“Of course you may have some!”

Bilbo nodded his thanks. “Still, it is worthwhile. I think I am gaining skill with the sword.”

“We must be quite much better if we hope to defeat a dragon.”

“Ori?”

“Yes?”

“How?”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

The hobbit looked out across the river, taking a contemplative puff on his pipe.

“Back there is home,” he said, solemnly.

“Not Thorin’s. Not Balin’s. They seek to return home. I can understand that. But we’re not really warriors are we? Back there is my home too.”

It was a simple exchange, but it soothed. Their differences in background and culture were bridged in the basic longing for home. Bilbo did not look at him, but he was a comfort, and Ori relaxed, letting his paper back down into his lap. He would like to distract, to lose himself in this art: the struggle of interpretation, of rebirth rather than of looming destruction. Focus on the brilliant new. The new now was the Elves. He stared at the face. The proportions seemed right, yet the elven purity as he had depicted it made the subject look too young. He could not fathom how this could be so, for he knew his lines to be correct. It was in concrete appearance the same face he had drawn over in his mind and seen at the few meals. Elven beauty was deceptively similar in form; there was something else he was missing. There was another aspect: aura, presence, personality. While other races differentiated first based on appearance, this essence was the first by which individual Elves were separated. The one he fixated on stood out among the Elves for another reason. In his portrait he had to achieve this and he could almost cry at how impossible a feat it seemed.

He tore the paper in half. It taunted him in its inadequacy.

His face fell into his hands as he lamented: “I don’t understand Elves.”

“Nor do I,” Bilbo said, “And I don’t think I ever shall.”

“I wish I could.”

“You know, I do think I’d like to learn more about them as well, but there is ever so much. Now is not the time. I don’t know how much longer we shall be in Rivendell.”

“Thorin says we depart Midsummer morning.”

“Midsummer morning? Ten days hence. No, you could not learn the secrets of anyone in ten days. But I think, when we are done with this quest business, I would like to return.”

“I would come with you. When we come back.”

“When we come back,” Bilbo echoed. The words drifted on the wind, disappearing into the far off trees. They would not look at the Misty Mountains, imposing and cold.

* * * * *

“I am suspicious of the dwarves.”

“That is strange coming from you,” Elrond said. “They have not been of concern to us since their fleeing of Moria.”

“You know of their quest?”

“Yes.”

“They aim to defeat a dragon.”

“Yes, Erestor, I am aware. I am to meet with them on Midsummer’s Eve.”

“It is impossible.”

“Gandalf believes Smaug to be another sign of the greater evil in the West. We should not hinder those who try to oppose it.”

“Greater evil? You speak of the same darkness that holds Mirkwood? Of Dol Guldur?”

“Yes. Sauron rises. Gandalf’s arrival was calculated; there is to be a reconvening of the White Council. Celeborn and Galadriel are already present as you know and Saruman and Cirdan are to arrival within the week.”

“You must have sent for them weeks ago for them to arrive so soon! Why was I not informed?”

“You are being informed now,” Elrond said. A week was time enough. Erestor would try, but Elrond doubted there was any new knowledge he could obtain that might drastically effect the discussion. All had been set in motion ages ago. “Do not think it lack of faith in you for this oversight. You know I value your wisdom and you shall be present at the Council as well.”

“I would be insulted not to. But Elrond, you do not understand all I must do to be a competent Counsellor! I must prepare! There is already so much and then this!”

“Can you not find an assistant to manage the lesser tasks?”

Erestor groaned.

“Please, do not be upset over such a small thing. Your mind must be ready to deal with larger matters. Here, Lindir!” Elrond waved over the steward who had been passing.

“My lord?”

“Can we acquire an assistant for Erestor for the next two weeks?”

Lindir looked askance at the Chief Counsellor.

“I apologize, but all those under my control are oc-cupied,” the steward threw the last word from his mouth with staccato disdain, “It may be beyond my place to say, but had I any available I doubt I could find one who would wish to work with him.”

Erestor glared. Lindir simply smiled in his superior way and Erestor wondered at how the elf was better liked than he. There was the obvious: Lindir was outgoing, good looking, usually charming. But Lindir could be vindictive and spiteful and his rule of the house was tyrannical (although Erestor had to respect its efficiency). Those who knew Lindir better knew he could also be fickle and emotional and Erestor had known him since his arrival in Rivendell. The steward disliked the Counsellor’s seriousness and Erestor suspected that his initial rebuffs of Lindir’s first friendly advances upon had been the catalyst for their mutually fueled dislike. In Erestor’s mind, this did not put him at fault; Lindir had been unreasonable to expect him to be immediately forthcoming. Lindir was young and unafraid and unashamed of what he could be. Lindir could revel and sing and drink without the burden of his mind. Lindir felt no qualms about giving and sharing his self and his music and he could not understand Erestor’s reticence. Erestor envied him.

Elrond was aware of the tension, but the two elves were so integral to his house that he wished to drive neither of them away. That they worked in different spheres and more rarely crossed paths had convinced him no actions needed to be taken except occasional reigning in of their tempers.

“Yes, it was out of your place to say so.” The steward bowed in apology. “I take Erestor’s need as an error on my part. He has a duty I did not make him aware of in a timely fashion.”

“Could he not use one of the visitors to the house? They would do well to make themselves useful. Perhaps that dwarf you seem so fond of.”

“Dwarf?” Elrond said in surprise, “This is news to me.”

“I was not aware that one conversation and one walk constituted being fond of something.” Erestor’s arms folded across his chest, hands fisting, “Nor do I see why it should be the subject of gossip.”

“Unprompted,” Lindir noted.

Elrond’s finger was on his chin in contemplation. “Yes, for you it may be,” he mused.

“The dwarf began it. On both occasions.”

“You watched him quite closely during training, so I have heard. Did he begin it then? So alluring beards must be!” Lindir laughed, “Oh do not look so annoyed with me. Perhaps if you were more regularly agreeable no one would think anything of it. If you do something so uncharacteristic you cannot keep tongues from wagging. You might like to listen more to what’s around you; you learn the most interesting things.”

“Lindir,” Elrond said sharply, “You services have been had here. There are other tasks for you to attend to.”

“Yes my lord.”

Erestor was glad to see the supercilious elf go.

“I do not understand how you can be so patient with him.”

“Perhaps years of being patient with you.”

“How have I ever been-”

“You speak your mind and so does he. I value that. Do not mistake me; I understand you are both very different. But you are both stubborn and have large weights on your shoulders. This is a stressful time for him.”

“I will forgive him only for it is the easiest option here.”

“Forgiveness as avoidance does not lead to final harmony, Erestor. And in this case, his suggestion should be considered if there are none to be spared. It need not be a dwarf. I am sure you might find one among the Elves and Men or one of the other counselors.”

“You know my power over them is minimal. I simply coordinate their knowledge.”

“And you have done an exceptional job in creating a well rounded group of advisors. I trust you will find a way to participate fully in the White Council despite the late notice, but time is of the essence. Now I must tend to my own and you to yours.”

“Certainly.”

Erestor did not intend to follow the advice. He had done well in many times of stress on his own and finding a suitable aid would only exacerbate the stress. He would be forced to resign himself to an increased workload in the coming fortnight.

* * * * *

Ori did not mean to overhear. He had slunk down to the kitchens at the urging of his rumbling stomach, having missed the last meal. If he had told any of the dwarves of his hunger he was certain to have received a jibe at his inconsistency. But he was a dwarf and loved his food as much as his books, if not so conscious of timing.

“He has sent for more food? Does he not know how occupied we are? It would be far easier if he just came to dinner like everyone else.”

“Show some respect! The higher of the house are not yours to question.”

“Something important must be going on for him to sequester himself so. Lord Cirdan and the Wizards do not often visit at the same time.” The elf who spoke tapped her nose conspiratorially.

“Ah, he will be in the library then. Bring it there.”

“That is so much further than his chambers!” complained an elf as he arranged a tray.

“And Golweniel will not be pleased by that,” said another.

“She can take that up with him. Wait. Hello? Who is this?”

The cooks and serving elves stopped and curious eyes lighted upon Ori who peered shyly from behind the wooden doorframe.

“Of all things it is his dwarf!” said one who seemed in charge, her hands planted on her hips and stance firm as she stood over the others who worked.

“Whatever could he be doing here?” This one was stooped over a sink scrubbing at plates, her head only turned.

“You think it overheard us?” another giggled.

“I didn’t mean to be rude!” he blurted overwhelmed at all the eyes on him. They laughed merrily at his embarrassment.

“You were not,” the overseer said, “What do you seek?”

“I, well, I can wait if you’re busy. I just thought I might have some dinner. I missed it you see.”

“Poor thing!”

“I am sorry, master dwarf, but supper has been finished and we are in the process of cleaning. Yet in a little time we might make you something.”

“Thank you! Is there a way I may repay you for the inconvenience?”

The kitchen elves looked at each other, making a tacit decision.

“Yes, if it is not too much trouble,” the overseer said finally, “Can you run up to the library and find Counsellor Erestor. Find him and tell him he is not to eat near the books and his food will await him in his chambers. If he puts up a fight Golweniel can be your ally.”

“Gladly!”

“Oh, I do like this one,” the dishwasher said, “So polite.”

“Yes go on then, before she tries to pet you with wet hands,” the overseer said.

He found his way back to the grand library with ease. Even if he had not just come from there, Ori would have had little trouble for he considered the location of everything in Rivendell as it was in relation to the sleeping quarters and the library. He gave thanks that the doors were ajar, for he did not know if he would have been able to push them open.

“Golweniel! Golweniel!”

“I thought you had gone for food?”

“Yes, but they sent me back.”

“For what purpose?”

“To find Master Erestor. I did not see him here before, but perhaps you know where he is?”

“Yes. He is here and has been for a long time though you did not see him.” She proceeded to lead Ori through the labyrinth to an unassuming door in a back room he had never seen before. She knocked three times, gave him an encouraging smile and left.

“Enter,” came a muffled voice.

Ori raised a hand to twist the knob at his eye level, inching his way into the room. Erestor was leaning casually over his desk, one leg extended to rest the heel upon the ground, the other bent to tuck underneath him. Upon hearing Ori come in he quickly brought his feet together and straightened his posture, regaining his neutral appearance of imperial and composed.

The eyes of dwarves are not easily fooled.

“You look tired.”

Erestor sighed. He wished he could muster the energy to take advantage of Ori’s unexpected visit. He had had little time to pursue his own interest in Thorin and Company since they first arrived, but the day had been taxing and he did not think he could now. “What are you here for?”

“I was sent to tell you food will be in your bedroom.”

“Tell them to bring it here,” the elf ordered.

Ori tugged at his beard braids, nervous tongue wetting his lips.

“They said the books would probably be safer if you ate elsewhere.”

Erestor snorted derisively. “Ridiculous. Tell them I am fully capable of managing not to spill my supper while I work.”

“I believe it and I would Master Erestor, but . . .”

“But what?”

“But rest would be good for you.”

“I am used to this pressure in my work.”

“I am used to traveling, but that does not mean I do not like a good bed and rest. You should keep yourself in good health.”

“My health is of importance to you?”

“I,” his mouth opened, but it took a minute for Ori to organize his thoughts. “I am concerned! You always look so weary. Like Lord Elrond and Captain Glorfindel. Even when you are smiling and calm. And now you aren’t smiling and you don’t just look tired. You look sad. Perhaps an hour or two rest will make you forget about it for a while.”

Erestor felt a deep nausea rise in his stomach. His eyes closed and fist clenched the edge of table as he strained to maintain his infamous control. The dwarf could not know, he could never know, but here he understood in the abstract way he could. Being one of the oldest in Rivendell Erestor knew he moved with the weight of his years and he also knew he hid his sorrow less successfully then others his age. This had contributed to his isolation as much as his voluntary choice to separate himself. And suddenly here was this young dwarf who understood in the way that so many younger elves had never been able to understand. That he could not escape it. The elves pitied, but the dwarf was what Erestor unconsciously yearned for. The dwarf forgave. In its suddenness it frightened. He felt as if his heart was suddenly plucked out of cold water by warm hands. So used to the coldness was he that the relief shocked.

“I suppose,” Erestor began slowly. He took a breath, recovering as best he could. “I should return to my rooms. Tell them thank you.”

“Good.” Ori beamed and it seemed to Erestor that for a moment the suffocating heaviness that had hung in his office all day was broken. And though Ori left then the cloud was clearer even in his absence, though the coldness returned.

_ We cross paths so often yet depart so quickly. Why is that, Master Ori? Tell me, how do you carry warmth with you? _ Erestor thought.

* * * * *

There were two types of reading areas in the library at Rivendell. In the main chamber were clusters of sofas, in placement so their occupants would capture the best of the light. There was an unspoken rule that these were to be used for leisure reading or quiet discussion. In the anterooms were long reading tables, reserved for more scholarly pursuits. Erestor was thankful his office verged off one of these study rooms. Even if he left his door open he could count on silence and little distraction during his work.

Except on the day he saw Ori working there. The dwarf was seated on a box, to bring him level to the table’s height. One hand held a yellowed book open. The other had been scribbling on one of several loose sheets of paper spread in front of him, but as he approached it waved. Erestor did not break stride, but responded with a curt nod before entering his office. He was determined to give Ori no further thought, but from where he sat at his desk the dwarf was inconveniently in his direct line of sight. He set to work, but he found his gaze wandering. He was watching the dwarf. And he thought Ori might be watching him too.

He was.

Ori had hoped his choice of position would seem arbitrary and innocent, though it was not. He had desperately wanted to see Erestor. In their limited interactions the Chief Counsellor already mesmerized in his singularity, even among the Elves. Ori had not been able to keep his mind off him. He wondered about his beauty: how Erestor could be both harsh and lovely at the same time. He wondered about his life: what a Chief Counsellor did, who were his friends, what did he do when he was not working. He wondered about his mind: what drove him, what excited him. He wanted to make sense of why Erestor intrigued him so. Most embarrassing of all: he wondered if Erestor thought of him. But he could not think of any untoward way to engage the elf to learn what he wanted, so his only hope was to gleam ideas from covert glances.

When Erestor’s focus was occupied Ori would run eyes up and down the organic curves of the elf’s body. He watched the deliberate scratch of pen –oh, what skill to never spill or drip at all—the flourishes controlled through the wrist. Erestor’s mouth never opened, lips frozen in a straight line of impenetrable stocism. Underneath close fitting, but not tight, green robes a solid chest rose and fell with steady breaths. Erestor’s presence was consuming; in his stillness he was a force around which everything else orbited. It was not a desk, but Erestor’s desk. The inkpot was not simply an inkpot, but Erestor’s inkpot. All was important only in the context of the elf. And he was no longer Ori, but Erestor’s voyeur. At the same time he thrilled at a new independence. There was an element of control, so rare in his life of being the baby brother. Ori knew Erestor could sense his eyes on him. What he observed might be a show then; it might be a show for him. His opinions, his thoughts might manipulate the grand creature before him; each small, elegant movement might be made to illicit a response. In the natural hierarchy Erestor was above him, but here he was in power and the reward was Erestor’s beauty. The elf was submissive in his allowance of Ori’s admiration, but only to an extent. A tightening of the body, a turn of the head and he would be demanding his own, so Ori would avert his eyes and he could feel his body held by those probing dark eyes. 

Erestor watched Ori bite his lip in concentration, run thick fingers down pages gasp quietly when he came across something exciting. It was an alien eagerness and he found himself fixated on the physicality of it. Others would have been serene, concentrated or restrained, as if it granted the material more respect. Ori was none of these. There was a tangible energy flowing off him that hit Erestor in waves, so that even when he was not watching he was acutely aware of the dwarf’s presence.

It was an elaborate dance for dominance, this back and forth, exhilarating in its novel dynamic. Their subconscious thrilled at inhabiting positions they usually did not. Each was a mystery to the other: full of clues and hints to a new person they wanted to understand. They danced for hours.

Until Ori missed a step.

By this time Erestor had completed all his work and was examining how the corner of Ori’s eyes crinkled, when suddenly the head turned and those eyes were staring right into his. He had been caught, but his pride would not let him look away. His gaze hardened to disguise his original intent, now criticizing, chastising the dwarf for not waiting his turn. How dare he look at Erestor which such shamelessness, they said. He had violated their tacit agreement that this joint fascination would not be acknowledged. Ori wilted at the unexpected hostility and looked away. Erestor had won.

He turned to stare at the wall of his office and pressed a hand to his mouth.

This was far too complicated.

He was angry at himself now. How was it that this dwarf stirred feelings in him he long ago thought himself freed from? How did he feel personally afraid of those questing eyes? Vulnerability of his body under another’s gaze was already a radical concept to him and he wondered at how he had been enchanted into it. Vulnerability in the face of another’s mind, when eyes meet, was terrifying, and he had turned his defensiveness to aggression instead of confronting the emotion. It was his own cowardice that made Ori wring his tunic now between trembling hands. Forcefully, Erestor packed away his ink and pens, placed his leftover paper in drawers. He left the library without a word or glance at Ori and went to bed early that night.

* * * * *

“I’ve done something wrong.”

“Of what kind?” Nori asked. He sat on a stone at the edge of the pavilion, sharpening his knives. Elves, dwarves and men moved about, engaging in talk or drink. They gave no notice to the two small dwarves in the noise of rising music and clamor of the crowd.

“I don’t know!”

Nori made a sound of disbelief through his nose.

“All right, I’ve angered someone.”

“If it’s Dori I can’t help you.”

“No, it’s not Dori.”

“Then I am here to help, though I cannot think how anyone could be angry at you.”

“You never were.”

“Nah, I had too much fun with having my own baby brother. Tried to teach you all sorts of naughty things, but you turned out right. A bit soft I thought, before this quest business.”

“And now?”

“You’re just as soft, worrying about hurting another’s feelings when we’ve got much more than that to do. But I’d have you no other way.”

“Then what can I do?”

“Be your sweet self. Be kind. Apologize even if you don’t know what for.”

Ori then laughed, moving from a crouch to sit on the ground so he could look up at his brother, “You never apologized for taking all those jewels and coins.”

“I’m no model for what you ought to be.”

“That’s why I like you. More than Dori anyways.”

“But you love him.”

“I do,” Ori conceded. “I love you both.”

“Ah, what am I saying you love everyone.”

“Is that bad?”

“No, not bad. I wouldn’t know. It’d be difficult I reckon.”

“Sometimes it is. This new one I’ve angered. I consider him a friend, but I do not know if he does the same.”

“A new friend.”

“An elf.”

“Can’t say I think that’s right.”

“Because he’s an elf?”

“Because he’s someone new,” Nori set his knives down, “We get scared you know. Both of us You open your heart so easily. One day you’re going to follow your heart for loyalty or ambition and we won’t be able to follow you.”

Ori placed a comforting hand on his brother’s leg. “The quest, I wanted to go. I’m glad you did this time.”

Nori placed a tender hand over Ori’s head. “We want to always be there for you.”

“You mean you won’t always?”

“Sometime you won’t want us to.”

“No! I always want you with me!”

Nori shook his head. “You’ll see. Someday what you want and what we want will be too different and you’ll choose your way. Like your elf friend.”

“What do you mean?”

“If I said you could never see him again. What would you do?”

“But that’s a silly thing to-”

“What would you do?”

“I’d, I wouldn’t see him anymore, but . . . he might miss me.”

“Already started, see? The questioning. It’s a normal part of growing up. Don’t ever forget brother: what you want and need should always be above what others say. Now even this elf of yours. You want to be friends, but he doesn’t. I’d knock some sense into him, but wouldn’t help would it? Go find him. Charm him. Don’t deny yourself at the expense of his feelings.”

“Dori wouldn’t like you telling me this.”

“Do we see Dori here now, hm? Go on then.”

* * * * *

“You could do with more patience,” Golweniel said, giving the pen a final flick and holding out the completed list to Erestor. It was a common mantra of hers and he responded by wordlessly jerking the paper from her hands. She was not perturbed by his abruptness. Golweniel was among the few who regularly interacted with Erestor; she knew how best to goad him, his subtle moods, his flaws and his fierce mind. Erestor was not known for his reciprocity in relationships, but her inability to be upset by his indifference and occasional tempers was what made her an interesting foil. She expected nothing from him, but that he might hear her. He respected her boldness in engaging with him. She was among the few he could call friend.

“This is all from the last three days?” “Just as you asked. He has interesting choices. Your dwarf reads quickly and is uncommonly eager for one of his race.”

He scanned the list. There were books about dwarves and elves, language and crafts, geography and legend, war and politics.

“Good morning, Master Erestor, Mistress Golweniel!”

Erestor’s body stiffened as he recognized the voice behind him.

“Good morning, Ori.”

“It is indeed a good morning, Master Ori,” the librarian said cheerily, “It is lovely to see you again. Erestor had just finished here I believe, so I may be of service. Do you require anything?”

“No, I was looking for Erestor actually.”

“It seems he was looking for you as well. Erestor was most interested in an account of all you have and intend to read,” Golweniel said. Erestor bristled. Had she no concept of discretion?

“You should have asked. I would have gladly shared.”

Erestor was thrown by how often the dwarves opposed the expected. Indignant, annoyance, offence or even anger were usual reactions to catching him in his prying. Not disappointed that he had not been more forward, not eager to please the furtive.

“I suppose I thought you might think me nosy,” he said, but in truth the thought of simply asking Ori had never crossed his mind. His modus operandi was to achieve his goals with the least amount of social interaction possible. Ori was not of the same ilk.

“Did you find what you wanted?”

“I do not think so.”

“I’m sorry,” said Ori with disarming sincerity.

“I am sorry as well. Perhaps I shall find what I seek elsewhere.”

“I do hope you do.”

“Thank you.”

Erestor pressed a hand to his breast and began to take his leave, but as he walked his mind whirred with thought. The books had been innocuous, so scattered in their scope of topic that he had not been able to pick out a theme. It seemed that they were of independent choosing rather than dictated by Thorin in some secret operation and he would have to drop that notion for lack of evidence. And Erestor realized now that though his initial intentions were logical, in going through with his collection of information he was no longer chasing politics. Ori was a scholar. Erestor found him both confusing and fascinating. He could not reconcile the personality he had met to what he knew of the Ori’s background. He was a mere hundred years to Erestor’s thousands, open and trusting to near fault. This was naïve, to bare oneself so. It frustrated Erestor to think that someone so seemingly simple might be braver than he. When war came Erestor had taken the advantage of his intelligence and retreated to the safety of a strategist and advisor’s position. He saw in Ori someone who could have done the same. He could have stayed in the Blue Mountains with his kin, reveling in his books, never to fear for life. Yet this youth chose what he had not: the path of danger and risk. Ori was an enigma. Ori walked into alien realms, dangerously counting all as friend until proven otherwise. Yet Ori thought he could fight a dragon. Ori was unique for through all those Erestor had met in many years here was one he could not fathom. He wanted the deepest motives of that mind exposed to him, he wanted to understand all aspects of Ori, son of Orin. The desire felt perverse in its object and difference from his other obsessions. He was both disturbed and anxious of where it might bring him. For in his years of experience he had no idea how to learn of the spirits of dwarves. From their last encounter in his office, he wanted to learn how one so young could intuit so well. And though he was loathe to admit, for it was nothing if not selfish, he wanted to be closer again to that mind and body, to the indefinable comfort that followed he dwarf. 

He turned back.

“Ori.”

“Yes?” came the hesitant reply.

“You write well.”

The dwarf blinked in confusion at the compliment.

“In the summer I am kept very busy. There is much I must attend to and also much writing involved.”

Golweniel’s head tilted, curious as to Erestor’s purpose. He tried to look straight at Ori, blocking out the judgment she might have.

“You have no knowledge of Sindarin it is clear, but you know the Tengwar. I thought I might take you on as a scribe. Any other assistant is distracted by the content of the documents which you would not be.”

“I would love to!”

The words were out of his mouth before he realized. His brain rejoiced at having access to Elven script and Elven language. His heart rejoiced at the possibility of making up for however he had wronged Erestor. 

“And how shall you pay him?” Golweniel asked.

“I don’t need any payment!” Ori exclaimed, “I’m very happy to help.”

“Good. I shall expect you in my office at nine. Good day to you both.”

They watched him walk away for the second time, shoulders thrown back and nose high. Golweniel thanked the Valar she was not so crippled with pride. When he was gone from view she turned down to Ori and winked at him.

“Good luck.”

“What for?”

Elven eyes were keener than dwarven ones and she had seen Erestor, out of Ori’s view, sigh with relief. The object stood in front of her, bouncing his weight from foot to foot, hand clasped to his face in wonder at his luck.

“He failed to mention his previous assistants were dismissed because they did not get along. So for long Erestor thought it easier to do all his work himself. He must be taken with you then, to make such an offer. Are you fond of him?”

“I am . . . I like him.”

“A good start. There are many who do not. They find him aloof and haughty. Which he can be at times, but there is humor and there is kindness hidden. He is reserved. Erestor does not like many things and he likes even fewer people.”

“But then why me? We only just met! Why not Thorin or Bilbo? They’re far more interesting.”

“Even I cannot understand the full workings of his mind, though I pride myself in doing so as best as I can.”

* * * * *

Ori was punctual. He had finished breakfast early and stood by the sundial, watching the shadow climb until the time read quarter to the hour, before hurrying to his destination. Erestor was already there. Their greetings were courteous, but impersonal. There was a sense of being lost in sudden deep water. With the closing of the door a part of their relationship had closed. There was finality and the fear of what was to come. Erestor had invited Ori into a privacy and locked him in. Ori felt it was if he stood in front of an imposing rock, that he knew to contain precious, but had no knowledge of how to cut. He dreaded beginning for the possibility of destroying it. So he let Erestor lead and received his transcriptions, relocating to a smaller desk that had been set up in the corner. Erestor retreated behind the shield of his own large desk.

They worked without comment. Ori would bring his copies for occasional inspection. Erestor was fierce and direct, issuing rewrites and reformation of sentences as he saw fit. Ori took the criticisms and would rework the texts as many times as Erestor asked. Yet the harshness of Erestor’s demands did not wound for Ori could sense an anxiety about the elf. Each movement was sharp and quick as he worked himself into a feverous rhythm.

A knock at the door signaled a visitor who did not wait to be recognized. Glorfindel strode in, stopping as he noticed Ori, raising a thin eyebrow. He shook his head as he turned to Erestor.

“I expected better of you this time in regards to the dwarf,” his words were in Sindarin to disguise their meaning from dwarf’s ears, “Yet I was a fool for you have always done this.”

“Elrond suggested I take a scribe and I have done so,” Erestor defended.

“I speak not of scribes, but of friends.”

“Friends. Have I friends?”

“The few you know, but you are not too old to make more. Erestor, you forget I know you and you are too particular for taking assistants. So why have you procured one now and of all of Imladris’ residents this one? Whether you recognize it in mind or not, your heart sees a kindred spirit. Yet this happens so rarely you do not know how to react. You treat him the one way you know how, how you treat everything, subordinating him with this position so you may bring him down to a level you can control. Dismiss him. It is not good for either of you I feel.”

“I did not know you were so vested in the dwarf’s well being. Would you like to take him yourself, crush his mind into a soldier?”

“Erestor! You know I have only the best interests of all at heart.”

The Counsellor fixed him with a cool stare. “I need not listen to your harsh judgement when in your conceit you pronounce you know so much of my own affairs from only having just walked in the door. What did you come here for? Not simply to chastise me I hope.”

“No I did not and I will not speak of it again, hoping that it will convince you to consider my words. But my purpose was to inform you that Saruman has arrived. Cirdan is within sight. Within the day all members of the Council will be accounted for.”

“That is all you needed to say then. I shall join you shortly.”

Glorfindel left the room, but Ori could see Erestor remained tense. He greatly wondered what had transpired between the two elves, but would not ask for if it had been his to know surely they would have use the common tongue. In the following silence Erestor’s eyes moved slowly from the door to look at Ori and the dwarf shrunk back at the unexpected force within. Ori had the feeling that the elf’s body harbored a tightly packed explosive and he feared it might soon combust and all of some unknown power would be hurled at him. But the elf was controlled as he moved from behind his desk and leaned down over Ori to place a firm hand atop the dwarf’s head.

“You have pledged yourself you understand and whatever you may be asked to do, for the time you are here, aiding me takes precedence. My work is more important than you could possibly believe. More important than quests to reclaim mountains.”

Ori gulped at the possessiveness urgency in the lowered tone, but held the gaze.

“The quest continues once I leave and it is very important,” he said, “But I am at your service and your concerns are my concerns, Master Erestor.”

He said nothing and stood, mollified. Ori could have done wrong so easily. If the dwarf had responded with obsequious total agreement or become equally fierce Erestor knew he would not have been able to contain himself. But Ori, marvelous Ori, had known exactly what to say, exactly what balance to give to save himself. And thus he saved Erestor. A glow of thanks blossomed in Erestor’s breast and he felt he must go before it spread to his head.

“I am called to an appointment,” the elf declared, voice returning to neutral, but Ori heard it as an apology. Erestor collected his things and made his exit, not closing the door as he left, expecting Ori to do so after he tidied up in his own time. The twin sons of Elrond met him in the main hall, and walked alongside him to the porch, their inane chatter falling unheard on his ears. They spoke of light matters: their opinion of the newer songs presented last night at supper, methods of animal tracking taught by their ranger friends who were visiting, their annoyance at Elrond’s directing their daily outfit choices while all the guests were visiting. They knew Erestor had little interest, but their talk was to lighten the mood in knowledge of what was to come. 

The first they felt was Galadriel her light shining out of her hair, half turned to the door, watching no one yet watching all and when they entered the three bowed in her presence. They took their place at the table were the Istari were already seated. A bird hopped on the table between Radagast’s fingers, himself bearing the appearance of a tree pulled from its roots. The head of the council, Curunir known as Saruman, held a stoic and grim pose. His beard white as ash he gazed heavily at the elves. Erestor lifted his chin in defiance, until Elrond’s hand set upon his shoulder.

“The Shipwright is at the gates. He will join us shortly and we may commence with discussion.”

“I find it iniquitous that we should travel so far and in such numbers in order to give credence to mere rumors and worries.” Saruman entwined his fingers. His body was a fortress and the gates were now closed.

“Gandalf was right to call a meeting of the council. I’ve felt it. A darkness in the forest.” The bird alighted upon Radagast’s hat and trilled. The sound echoed an ominous tone.

“Save your tales for when we are all assembled,” Elrond said.

And then there was yon sound of sweeping feet. Glorfindel appeared in ceremonial robes, Cirdan at his elbow. Despite their location far from the sea, the Shipwright still carried into the hall the scent of wind and salt. The change was abrasive.

“My thanks for the safe accompaniment.” Cirdan seated himself as Glorfindel moved to stand beside Lady Galadriel. Erestor thought it perhaps the first time the usual golden radiance of his friend appeared dull.

“We are all present I believe?” Elrohir. “How shall we begin?” Elladan.

Gandalf coughed and the attention swang palpably towards the grey Wizard.

“We must speak of that which goes by the name The Necromancer.”

Erestor shuddered, but leaned inwards with intent. 

* * * * *

Glorfindel had invited him to a party, perhaps in reconciliation, but he had declined. The elves behind the Captain had shaken their heads at the expected answer. Perhaps he would have accepted had there had been fewer watching him. Still, he was not entirely antisocial; he had an amiable chat with Golweniel before returning to the office. And he had thought his statement clear that he was done, but he was surprised. Ori was still there. He would not have let the dwarf stay if he had known; he would not have been comfortable leaving anyone alone in his sanctum without his watch. But Ori had stayed and Erestor found that he did not mind it now that it had happened.

“What have you done?”

Ori yelped, not having heard Erestor come through the door (still open).

“Nothing, I touched nothing, promise! I just copied all these,” he waved at a group of papers.

“For four hours?”

“I copied them many times. I wanted to make them the very best and then I got one of my own books to read,” he admitted sheepishly. “But do you have something else? I can do that right away.”

“I do.”

This became their routine. Both regretted how little time this arrangement actually afforded them for talking, though they would not broach this with the other. Erestor had meetings for hours a day, leaving him drained and not inclined to talk for he had no time to spare. But Ori tuned into Erestor’s movements, learning to orbit him in a complimentary way that no other assistants had achieved. The others had grown resentful of his controlling nature and tired of the long hours. Ori accepted and thanked him and Erestor realized by the fifth day, he trusted him. Ori did what he was told, because he respected that Erestor knew more than he did. But the dwarf took initiative in small increments that were not defiance or stubbornness and could not pique Erestor’s temper, in this he kept himself afloat above the pressure that was Erestor’s personality. He did more than he was called to, better than expected. Erestor began to leave more work when he left; Ori made fewer mistakes with each passing day. Erestor in turn found himself not weakening, but loosening the grip that he had tried to hold upon the dwarf, the same iron grip that he exercised upon everything that made him. The dwarf fell easily into the consistency of his life. Erestor took an unfamiliar comfort in knowing he could rely on coming back after an arduous day to see Ori still seated in the corner and a gentle smile. The office was his core and for so long its only resident had filled it with the weight of his mind. This seriousness accumulated in the walls where it swelled until it pressed back on him further weighing him down, a terrible cycle. Erestor would come to realize that it was a relief to have another within, another who he could trust to care for his sanctum. Ori swept the room free with easier thoughts.

In truth Erestor’s defenses were lowered for his efforts were focused elsewhere. Over the course of those few days, against his initial advice, the Council had come to the deliberation that an attack should be made upon Dol Guldur. Erestor has spoken against confrontation previously, but no action had resulted from their last meeting and some felt the situation had changed as to warrant it. The forest had grown darker, full of foul things and tales from Thranduil’s kingdom spoke of an evil power that forced his people to retreat into their halls. Gandalf and Galadriel especially felt that they must act. All agreed that, at most they could hope to drive Sauron out of the woods, not expect to defeat him, but they must force him to recede. Erestor had agreed then, that perhaps this was indeed the course that must be taken. Darkness can never be defeated it can only be pushed back, but it was their duty as guardians to do so. Plans were made and Erestor grew uneasy, as all battle made him.

On the day of the decision, his footsteps were heavy burdened with the truth of the inevitable war. Elrond had been correct; Sauron would flee elsewhere and still grow stronger. This was only a temporary hindrance. But for now he could flee and he sought the comfort of his office where familiarity and a stable dwarf would be waiting, but there he met another tragedy. Ori was gone. An acute panic formed in his mind as he stood in the doorway, struggling with the incomprehensibility of an empty room. He moved forward as if he might expose a figure hidden, but there was none, not behind the curtains or under the desks. And while Erestor’s logical mind knew he was probably elsewhere in the house, his imagination, still dark from the discussion, crept to other places. The elf’s knees buckled as he collapsed onto the sofa. A vision swept over him of orcs pouring into the valley, their faces illuminated by lighting as a storm raged above. Glorfindel stood gleaming, a beacon in the chaos, his soldiers ready, with Elrond and the twins behind him. And where was he, where was Erestor? He would be fighting too. This time he would for he had nothing to lose. Then his mind travelled behind the orcs, through their path of destruction, the felled trees of Mirkwood, the burned houses of the towns of men and perhaps somewhere a dwarf who loved books lay with a split hammer at his side . . .

“Erestor?”

Eyes fluttered, gradually processing the face of Golweniel above him, her lips puckered in concern. She placed a hand upon his chest, but he shoved it away and covered his face.

“What are those?” he asked, for he had seen her other hand held a bouquet of fine flowers.

“They were for you.”

“Whoever they are, tell them to leave.” He could not handle visitors now, least of all the kind who gave him flowers through Golweniel. He received presents frequently, from younger elves who did not know him, but crafted a fantasy based on his mysteriousness and beauty. So the naïve believed they might have a chance at winning the heart of the Counsellor if he would take the time to know them and such gifts were initiation of their intentions. 

“There is no danger for they are not longer here, but I thought these still might help you-“

“Fine. Give them to me.”

She did and he clutched them in white knuckles, the other palm still on his face.

“You do not wish to talk.”

“No I do not. Please.”

A gentle press of lips was placed to his forehead and while he did not shirk his body was stiff and unresponsive to the small sign of affection.

“Be well.”

She stepped back, but paused to take in the rare sight, an Erestor so overcome. He looked like a macabre doll with the flowers so placed and the paleness of skin. Her heart hurt for him, but she knew she could offer him no consolation. Except for perhaps one piece of information.

“The flowers were from Ori.”

He sat up suddenly, the flowers falling into his lap, his eyes wide open, but still glazed as the green stems and purple blossoms swam in front of him. Thoughts of despair were driven to the recesses of his mind and a new picture took their place. Ori, bright, warm Ori, trotting through the garden, face scrunched as he examined each flower. And he would choose them, he would think of Erestor, think of these particularly for him. He would twist the stems gently, a clean snap and the ribbon, purple to match wherever did he find that? And Ori was alive and well now, the war was not yet here.

“I have been wrong.”

“Did I hear that correctly? Erestor, not logically mistaken, wrong?” She was stunned at the admission, but he either did not notice or did not care.

“I must know, are the dwarves gone?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

He was out of the door in an instant, scooping up the flowers to take with him. Golweniel sighed and smoothed out the sofa. She was surprised for the second time, to warmth under her fingertips, remnants of his body. She wondered at it, for he had looked so cold. But she smiled.

“Oh, I knew you had a heart.”

* * * * *

The dwarves were scattered on the floor, some tying knots or buckles, some stacking pans and plates, others running around picking up scattered items, but as soon as Erestor entered everybody stilled. He did not flinch at the eyes. Perhaps a finger pinched one of the flower’s petals a bit too tightly, but he was unwavering. His voice filled and seemed to address the entire room, but there was only one who he spoke to.

“You were not supposed to leave.”

“What do you think you’re doing giving orders?” a young golden blond one asked.

“Yeah, we do what we like! Who are you anyway?” The beardless one this time. Erestor’s eyes flicked downwards at the two who had marched up to his feet, hands on their hips, bristling with young indigence. His teeth clenched.

“I am Master Erestor, Chief Counsellor to the Lord Elrond, and you will treat me with respect,” he said in a threatening monotone.

“Why should we? You’re not very nice yourself.”

“ Don’t see why should respect such a mean elf.”

“Hold your tongue, lads,” Thorin Oakenshield growled and they were pulled away by their collars, grumbling and growling. An older dwarf with softer eyes tried to be diplomatic. “Master Erestor, we do have the right to leave this valley. You must know our intent was to rest only for a fortnight before continuing on our quest.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“Ori.”

There was a collective intake of breath and collectively heads swiveled to point at the young dwarf, who shrank back against the wall, where he had been stuffing clothes into a sack.

“You were not supposed to leave,” Erestor repeated, but his voice quavered now, no longer an accusation, but entreating.

“Tomorrow is Midsummer’s,” Ori whispered, but in the silence his words echoed off the walls to hit the ears of all. “We are packing to go. I had to help.”

“That is your explanation. And you are to leave and will never come back. And these-” he threw the flowers on the ground angrily, “were they an apology?”

“No!” Ori cried, “They were thanks! I was going to say goodbye tomorrow.”

“So you will still go. To your death.”

The room hissed and even the white haired dwarf’s eyes flashed as the dwarves moved forward menacingly.

“I’ll take you not to insult us so.”

“Leave. Ori. Alone.”

“Erestor, I think you’d better.”

And he had no intention of succumbing to the threats of dwarves, but that last voice, reedy in its desperation and determination stopped him and he did leave. He did not see Ori run to the doorway. He did not see Ori watching him leave or how the dwarf bent to collect the flowers he had picked. But he did realize one thing, once he was curled up in a ball of misery on the sofa in his own chambers. That was the first time Ori had ever called him Erestor. No additional Master, not Counsellor. Erestor.

* * * * *

The festivities began shortly and the Hall of Fire was hot with so many bodies packed inside. Tables were laid with a luxurious feast. Though the summer night was not cold fires blazed and dancers undulated around them to the tune of various instruments and rising tinkling voices. It was an exquisite display of pure joy. Ori could not keep from being seduced by it, but while he laughed and clapped and watched the cavorting elves he felt tinges of uneasiness. His gaze kept straying towards the head table, from which the most important Elves were viewing the proceedings and he could tell Erestor was making a deliberate effort not to look at him. The Counsellor sat to the side of Elladan, hands laced tightly in front of his plate, face stoic. He had not touched a drop of wine or piece of food, as far as Ori could tell, and the dwarf wondered if this was his fault, if he had distressed him so. He wanted to apologize, but he could not do it here, it would be impossible to approach the table without seeming conspicuous. And hadn’t he embarrassed Erestor enough? Ori berated himself; he should have left a note with the flowers and Erestor would not have had to come find him and the whole terrible ordeal would not have happened.

He thought on what to do while the ale swam in his vein until a hand grabbed him and it was Nori and he was pulled into the center of the floor. He uttered feeble protests, but a redface Nori hit him on the head and Dori shoved a flute into his hands. Ah, so they were going to play. He put the instrument to his lips, scrunched his eyes in concentration and blew a few experimental notes. Gaining confidence he started a clear rhythm which Dori joined. Nori’s flute followed, stronger, taking up the melody and he receded as the violins, violas, cellos, drums and single harp of his fellows joined to their song. And when he opened his eyes he saw something that made his heart soar. Erestor was watching him, blatantly, leaning forward in his chair as if being even the smallest bit closer would allow him to absorb the music better. They locked eyes and Ori knew Erestor cared only for his music. So he danced. He was not lithe and flowing like the elves, but he had his own unique motion, a frantic rocking and spinning that complimented the surrounding sounds. He danced and played for Erestor, hoping the music could say what he could not. When they had finished and the dwarves collapsed down into their chairs to uproarious applause, Ori thought he saw a glimmer of a smile on those pink lips. And he was able then to really enjoy himself for the remainder of the night.

Hours later the crowds began to disperse, the music became gentler. Beside him Kili let out an outrageous yawn and his brother prodded him up until they shambled off. The dwarves rose in small groups, but when his brother stood he did not.

“What is it?” Nori asked.

“I want to stay a little longer.”

“I’ll stay with you then,” Dori sat back down, but Nori grabbed him by the sleeve pushing his weight against his brother.

“Nahhh, leave the lad alone. C’mon let’s go. ‘M tired.”

“I’m not,” Ori said emphatically. Dori’s mouth twitched, but having one brother hanging off another arm he did not have much choice.

“Let him enjoy it. It’s the one last time.” Dori’s face grew tender and he placed his palm under Ori’s chin.

“Since it’s the last night, Ori. Don’t stay up too late.”

* * * * *

They were alone together, surrounded by the soft rustling of green stained dark with nighttime.

“I had a garden once. Long ago. A place called Gondolin. It was a great city and I was young and not near as important. Here there is no room nor time,” Erestor said.

“I can imagine that. You look fine in a garden. Like-“ Ori arced his hands vaguely, “like a tree. A nice tree.”

“Your verbal skills are proficient beyond your years.”

“I do my best.” Ori giggled, but Erestor remained solemn.

“Must you go? I could make good use of you in the library. You have proven yourself adept assistant. Suprisingly suited to my . . . needs.”

“You don’t understand dwarves, do you Erestor?”

“I thought I had. Yet, I must admit you confound me some.” And then Erestor’s nostrils flared as he glared down at his companion. “Why must you throw yourself on such a Fool’s errand? You were not made for it.”

The dwarf did not seem perturbed by the elf’s show of condescension. “You’re right. We are few in number and I am no warrior. While I do have some skill with a slingshot, my stars are in books. But, as an Elf of learning you should know the importance of the Mountain. It is not home yet, but it is our homeland and those who go to conquer it are my family. Where else shall I go, but with them? I wish to see my race live freely and happily. And then I might be free and happy as well.”

Then gloved hand reached out to Erestor’s robe-hidden fingers and a rough padded thumb rubbed over moon-white knuckles. Erestor inhaled sharply, but he did not pull away.

“I should have told you. I was not thinking, we were all so busy, you know? But I promise will think of you on the road,” Ori finished.

“It is getting late.” Erestor’s voice was faint, mouth parted and barely moving.

“I should be getting to sleep. Would you honor me a walk back to my bedchambers, Erestor?”

“If that is your last wish.” And then Ori felt Erestor’s fingers curl, until their hands were clasped at the ends. So joined they made their way back inside The Last Homely House.

* * * * *

The night was warm, but Ori woke to the crackling of a blazing fire. He rolled over in his bed to hear the rough snores of Nori, but there was an unexpected expanse of linen between himself and his sleeping brother. He sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“Dori?”

The missing dwarf was silhouetted by the red glow of the fireplace. He stat cross legged, poking at the embers, deep in thought.

“I am sorry for waking you.”

Ori crawled out of the bed, moving to sit next to his brother. He drew his knees up to his chest.

“You never said. That Rivendell . . . well Nori and I find it pleasant, it’s nice, but you, you really love it. The books, the gardens, the elves. You have friends here!”

“Are you angry at me?”

“No. I’m angry at myself.”

“For . . .”

“For feeling like I should stop you from leaving with us tomorrow. That I might have been able to make you stay. I knew I couldn’t before and I can’t now.”

Ori laid his head against his brother’s shoulder. He could not fault Dori for wanting to protect him. He knew too, that if anything happened to him on the quest Dori would forever hold himself accountable. He wanted to tell him not to, he wanted to be independent and free his brother from the guilt of fraternal responsibility. He was so tired of it all, the constant smothering and underestimation he received, but he could not push away those who cared for him. This quest was a step towards this new autonomy. He was important. He was the scribe. He would receive his own equivalent share of the winnings. If they were victorious all would be better. He could not dream of if they were not. 

They sat like this for an hour, drawing comfort from each other. Outside a gentle music floated up from the few Elves still awake. Both knew that elsewhere in the house Thorin, Elrond and Gandalf consulted and determined their fate.

“I am scared. I know we may come not come back. I know I will be not much use in a fight. I think I would like to stay in Rivendell forever, but I can’t. I have to be useful. I have to be myself.”

Dori rose, pulling Ori up by the shoulders to leadhim back to bed. Ori crawled into the center, where Dori had been before and his brother lay beside him. When the sheets were lifted, Nori rolled over to face them. They were not surprised to see his eyes open.

“Up bright and early,” he whispered. Then arms enveloped Ori on both sides and they all slept.

**Author's Note:**

> Concerning Erestor’s occupation – I have seen Erestor made a librarian in many fanfics. While this makes sense in the context of his being a scholar, it cannot be reconciled with his canon job as Chief Cousellor to Elrond. Being a librarian takes more than just scholarly aptitude, it would be a demanding and consuming job. I do not believe Erestor would have the time to keep his knowledge of all of Middle-Earth current (this would involve intensive reading, analysis of political and economic relations, meeting with ambassadors), assist Elrond in his decision making councils AND run the Rivendell library. Even for Erestor, that seems impossible, if simply by the fact that being drawn away from his Librarian duties for the hours it would take to be the most effective of all Elrond’s Counsellors would limit the time he would have in order to run an efficient library. Erestor may have been offered the job at some point, but he would have recognized his inability to undertake it. But he is a common patron.  
> Concerning the naming of Ori’s father – Since the “ori” syllable is a familial naming convention it stands to reason that it might be incorporated in the paternal name. I chose the suffix “-in” to emphasize Ori’s relation to the line of Durin which ties him to the quest for Erebor. “-in” being common among descendants of Durin (Thorin, Frerin, Farin, Dain, Balin, Dwalin, Fundin). Thus the name Orin was created.  
> Concerning the Head Librarian – OC naming is always a tricky situation. For coming up with Golweniel I perused the language resources at councilofelrond.com (which you should all check out if you haven’t, it’s amazing!) Their Sindarin dictionaries yielded “golwen” as meaning “wise, learned in the deep arts.” “-el” is a common suffix for female Elves. Otherwise, I just liked the sound of it!  
> Concerning Lindir’s occupation – while there is no clear stated role of Lindir in the canon and fanwrters have chosen him as a ministrel, because of his name I have gone with the role given him in the films as probable steward (Greeting of Gandalf, accompaniment of Arwen, prescence at the Council of Elrond). This is because I feel that even if he were the le ad minstrel, he is more likely to interact with Erestor, Elrond and Glorfindel if he were Steward of the House. So in this verse he just has a great affinity for music, hence his name.
> 
> Concerning the White Council – Although Gandalf, Galadriel, Elrond, Saruman and Cirdan are the only ones explicitly stated to take part I feel it makes sense for at least Lord Celeborn, Erestor and Glorfindel to be in attendance. I cannot see how Erestor wouldn’t be present with his position as Chief Counsellor; Elrond would not shut out his advisors in such a way. Glorfindel and Celeborn are also of high importance, because of their experience and history so this is my headcanon that they were all there.


End file.
